


What It Is

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, Canon Divergence - The Lying Detective, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John Is A (Gentle) Sex God, John is Not Okay, M/M, Nobody is going to text Irene Adler, POV Sherlock Holmes, See what I did there, Set Before Anything Eurus-Related, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock is a Mess, Top John, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: How I wish TLD had ended. John regrets bringing up The Woman. Sherlock is confused. Instead of birthday cake, there is birthday sex (with obstacles). Everything's alright in the end. I'm really bad at summaries.





	What It Is

When he hides his face in his hands and starts to sob, I feel my heart break. I know that it’s just a figure of speech and anatomically impossible, but it causes me physical distress to see him like this. _I can’t do this._ How does one comfort a man who has lost everything? How does one comfort a man, period? How do I, the person who’s made the mistakes in the first place, help him to overcome his pain? I can’t. _I can’t._

Tears are falling from his eyes, dotting his shirt and the dusty carpet with tiny wet spots, and I realize that this is the kind of crying that requires some sort of reaction from my side, some _fast_ reaction, because if I don’t do anything right now, it will mean that I’ve let him down _again_.

I put down my cup, making the absurd attempt to do that as quietly as possible, as if not disturbing him in his mourning was of the highest importance right now, and get up from my chair.

_What are you going to say? What???_

The two seconds it takes me to close the distance between us feel like two hours, my brain shutting itself down and switching to autopilot, and then time stops entirely because he’s in my arms now, one of my hands cradling the back of his neck, the other one sliding up his arm out of its own accord, and he’s so warm, and he smells like ( _aftershave-sweat-skin_ ) _John_.

“It’s okay.”

My face is touching his hair, fine and downy here at the very top of his head, and I rest my chin against him because there’s nowhere else to go right now and he doesn’t seem to mind and this is what I’ve wanted for longer than I can remember.

His muffled voice: “It’s _not_ okay.”

I take a silent breath and mirror his words from only moments before.

“No. But it is what it is.”

He doesn’t stop crying and I tighten my embrace around him, lightheaded due to the proximity of the man who, despite everything, is still the only fixed point in my universe, the only friend I’ve ever had, and the only person I have ever trusted. And he’ll never know, because everything’s broken.

He’s trembling violently now, wound up as tight as a spring, and I can’t help the apprehension forming in the back of my mind. I know what lies beneath the mask of John, the Good Doctor; I’ve seen him drop it and _strike_ , and I wonder if he’ll lash out as soon as he manages to collect himself. If he hit me again, I wouldn’t fight back. I’d take what I deserve.

“John,” I say, using his name without meaning to continue, and he surprises me by looking up at my face, a question that I can’t identify in his eyes. He’s standing so close to me that I can feel his breath on my cheeks and see every tear clinging to his lashes. I attempt to speak again, but he straightens up and brings his front against mine in the process, not leaving an inch of air between us, and since I’m still bent down from hugging him we’re almost nose to nose now, and the words I’m struggling to find get stuck in my throat. The ribs he bruised when he kicked me at the morgue complain when he slides his arms around me and digs his fingers into my back.

“I want to come _home_ ,” he whispers throatily, new tears constricting his voice. “ _Please_ , let me come home…”

I can’t breathe.

_How?_

_What?_

“I’m so _sorry_ , Sherlock… I’m sorry I hurt you so much… I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me for what I did.”

He averts his eyes after that, staring at some point behind my right shoulder instead. I raise my head, painfully aware of his face so, so close to my lips. He sniffs and then breathes out shakily, obviously trying to get himself together.

My heart is hammering in my chest. I need to talk to him about this; this is all _wrong_ – _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to apologise for everything I did and didn’t do and for all the hurt I’ve caused him time and time again.

“I don’t understand,” I manage to say, wondering for a moment whether this is real or whether I’m maybe still caught up in my last trip, stuck in my mind palace once and for all, my delirious brain making up stories about John Watson coming back to me to set things right.

I swallow and realise that my fingers are still entangled in the hair at the nape of his neck---

_Does he still want to be held?_

\---so I run my palm down his back to get into some safer territory, and I don’t know how to touch him or if it’s the right thing to do at all because I’m _brilliant_ , a mastermind, the one to solve all the riddles, but underneath it all I’m _The Freak_ , the weird guy, the one no one has ever caressed like that because he hated it and it made his skin crawl, and still does, except for the touch of _one_.

“I--- You don’t have to apologise… You… _I’m_ the one _you_ should hate, not the other way around.”

His gaze flicks back to me again, and he grips the fabric of my dressing gown in his fists.

“ _No._ ” He shakes his head. “No, no, no. You did it all for _me_ , to protect me, and you got hurt because of it, and you made me go back to her and--- and I _hated_ you for it, and for everything that happened after, and I used violence against you, physical violence, several times, which I’ll _never_ forgive myself. Never.”

His knuckles dig into my muscles so hard that it hurts.

“It felt so good to let it out on you…” he whispers. “ _God_ , I scared myself with the first blow, but then I couldn’t stop… I called you a monster, but it’s _me_ , Sherlock, _I’m_ the monster. I thought I loved her, and in a way I really did, because she saved me from myself when you were gone. I almost went insane with grief over you, Sherlock… Then she shot you, and that love died, but I didn’t realise it at first... When I rejected you after she was gone, you were in a bad place, and I just left you there. I swore I’d never let you into my life again; living with you had hurt me too much, too often. I would have let you kill yourself if it wasn’t for Mrs Hudson.”

His whole being is one large wound these days, I realise, and he’s bleeding out before my very eyes. Looking down on him I find two orbs of brilliant blue, turned darker with self-loathing, boring into my soul. I wish I could help him. _How?_

“I hated you so _fucking_ much. I would have let you _die_.”

He spits out the last word, although his voice has turned eerily quiet and flat, and saying all this seems to have exhausted him, because he sighs and closes his eyes and tips back his head in a gesture of defeat that causes his lips to brush against my jaw---

 _Oh God oh God oh God_ \---

Completely beside myself, I hear my voice utter a high-pitched sob that embarrasses me deeply; his lids flutter open in slow motion, and then his hands are there, gripping my head and covering my ears, and he kisses me. I close my eyes. Tears are pressing against the insides of my lids, spilling out at the corners.

When his lips part to coax my mouth open with gentle pressure, I register that they are much, much softer than they look, and he tastes of his beloved Earl Grey and sugar and something else I have never tasted before because it’s _his_ taste, it’s John, and it’s my first real kiss and I know that if he leaves after this, it will have been my last one, too.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he sighs into my mouth and nudges my lower lip with his tongue, trailing his fingers down my sides and to the small of my back. I feel him moving his hands, and suddenly something metallic drops to the floor with a tiny and final-sounding _plonk_.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he moans. “I did everything wrong…”

He’s trailing kisses along my whole face now, dabbing at my tears with his lips, tracing the corners of my mouth with his tongue, nuzzling my cheek and pushing his nose into the soft spot where my neck meets my jaw. I hold onto him like a drowning man would hold onto a lifebuoy, overwhelmed with the reactions his tender touches cause in my body.

“Say you want this, please, _please_ …” he adds softly, desperately.

I open my eyes and nod through the haze numbing my brain, not trusting my voice to obey me yet, and he bites down on his bottom lip, his expression twisting into something raw and bittersweet.

I need to let him know.

“I can’t _talk_ , John, not about this, even though I want to so badly, I--- I don’t have the words, the capacity--- I--- I can’t. I don’t know _how_.”

My voice is choked from crying, but I don’t mind him seeing me with my guard down like this. I can’t pretend anymore; _I’m so tired_ …

He cradles my face again and his thumbs sweep across my cheekbones in a gesture so loving that it almost hurts.

“I can,” he says simply, his tone firmer now. “I’ve loved you since the day we met. I didn’t know it then, or didn’t want to know. And when I finally realised, I went and fucked it up. Hello, I’m John _Definitely-Not-Gay_ Watson, wanking to the image of my best friend three times a week, but hey, still straight! And _now_ ,” he laughs bitterly, “I tell you to go and hit it off with Irene Adler, because why not sabotage myself a little more while I’m at it? I’m pathetic, really.”

_“…wanking to the image of my best friend three times a week...”_

My mind goes into overdrive when I hear what he’s been doing, the echo of it overshadowing everything else that he’s said, but I know I have to reply somehow.

I should be ashamed of my lack of conversational skills when it comes to basic human interaction – saying sorry shouldn’t be so hard; discussing problems, wishes, future visions with an individual you feel so connected to shouldn’t be this awkward; explaining what’s on your mind, how you love and want said individual, should be possible.

But it isn’t.

Not now – _especially_ not now.

Not ever.

Summoning everything that’s left of my usual eloquence, I say: “You’re not pathetic. You’re hurting a lot. But please, John… Can we talk about everything… later? There are things that need to be said and done before it can get better, but… I can’t right now. It’s too much… I’m sorry.”

He nods, but doesn’t move away. Gently, he nips at my bottom lip, pulling it into his soft, slick mouth for a second to suck on it and swipe the tip of his tongue across it.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs afterwards.

_God yes._

I lean in to kiss him again, already addicted to his taste.

“I don’t have the faintest intention of doing anything to, with or about Irene Adler, John,” I say against his lips, because that part of our earlier discussion seems to be the only one that could potentially get in the way of this, whatever _this_ is.

He inhales shakily.

“Good,” he whispers roughly. “Because I think I couldn’t bear it if you did.”

\---

I don’t consciously remember the words that followed, the ones that caused us to end up here, on my bed, in this advanced state of undress, and I don’t care either, because _remember Sherlock, maybe this is a dream, so enjoy it while it lasts_ …

I do remember him calling Molly to tell her she’s off duty tonight ( _yes, everything’s fine, I’ve got it, thanks, Molly, I’ll let you know if we need anything_ ) and then taking me by the hand, his thumb pressing into my palm, sending sparks of electricity through my system.

The rest is a blur of _touchtastesmell_ \--- _everything new_ , frantic and breathless and insane.

He’s down to his tight-fitting, all-revealing pants already ( _shirt – living room – shoes, trousers, socks – down the hall – Get it off now, fast, fast, oh God, John_ …) and I’m not very far behind ( _slippers, dressing gown – living room – shirt – right next to the bedroom door, pressed against the wall with his hands all over me – Oh Sherlock, I’m sorry, look at the bruises, forgive me, please_ …), and the thought that I’ll be naked with him in a minute makes my knees buckle even in the horizontal. I like to lead Mycroft to believe the opposite, but sex _does_ , in fact, alarm me.

A lot.

“ _Sherlock_ …”

My name sounds so beautiful tumbling from his lips between breathy moans and shuddering sighs, and when he pulls my trousers down my legs and discards my socks along with them I have to hide my face in my pillow because it’s all too much and not enough at all. His hands come to rest on my thighs, stroking me there with long, soothing motions.

“Have you ever--- Is this your first time…?” he asks.

I bite the inside of my cheek and nod, not daring to look at him.

“With a man?”

_Oh John, you misunderstand me._

“The… _first_ time,” I say, as pointedly as my current state of arousal and shame allows me to.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, the voice I love so much sounding small and almost awed by this revelation. “Oh, Sherlock.”

I allow my eyes to find his face again and see him looking at his own hands on my flesh, smiling a bit and circling his thumbs, tickling the insides of my legs with his touch.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock… but we can wait. We don’t have to… you know...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but looks up at me again, and his smile widens. “You’re gorgeous, look at you…”

Before I can react he’s lying beside me again, covering half of my body ( _carefully, and on the good side_ ) with his own and leaning in to kiss me.

“You’re exquisite,” he whispers against me, and I shudder in response, not knowing how to deal with this amount of praise.

 _How odd, since you’re so vain_ … my brain remarks loftily before it flickers off again. _Oh shut up._

His hardness resting against my hip is distracting and wonderful and frightening all at once, but I don’t want to stop; even if it feels like we’re going rather fast (by _my_ standards at least), I don’t want to wait for anything with him.

“We’ve wasted so much time,” I say, feeling his lashes fluttering against my own. _So close, amazing._ “Please don’t stop…”

He tilts his head and re-initiates the kiss, deepening it this time, our tongues rubbing against each other obscenely, beautifully, quiet sounds of longing filling the air around us. His hand finds its way down my body and then I am finally in his palm, albeit separated from his skin by the thin material of my silk boxers. My hips twitch against him out of their own accord and I moan, and he breaks our kiss and laughs breathlessly.

“So responsive, oh _God_ …” He bites my earlobe. “I love how you shake when I touch you… I’m going to make you feel so good…”

I realise that he’s feeling more confident by the second, working in familiar terrain, and I know that I should be grateful to him for leading the way, but suddenly I feel humiliated, because even though I know the theory of it all, I don’t know which steps to take and what is going to be expected of me, and I’m also jealous of the ones who came before me – I’m just the latest in a long row of lovers.

_The green-eyed monster, really? Irrational, Sherlock. Sentiment. Got you in the end, huh? Dull._

He notices something – of course he does, because deducing me in the bedroom is easy; any idiot could do it, and he is not an idiot, but the person who knows me best. I’m so out of my depths here and I _loathe_ the feeling.

“What’s wrong?”

_You’ll spoil this, stupid. Don’t tell him!--- You have to tell him; you love him – you want this.--- Stop!--- Shut UP!_

I’m torn between bolting and hiding myself in his arms. He’s still looking at me, waiting for a reply. His fingertips are sliding along the waistband of my boxers, dipping beneath it now and again to brush my pubic hair, but to my immense dismay I feel my erection wane a bit, and I’m sure he can feel it, too. He stops and props himself up on one elbow.

“Sherlock, listen, you can change your mind, you know? Tell me what’s wrong, please.”

I know I have to tell him. I swore to myself that if he ever took me back, there would be no more lies.

“I feel inferior,” I say, trying to hold his gaze. “I have never done this before, and you are so self-confident… And I keep thinking about the men and women you did this with before, and how they saw this part of you while you did it.” I shrug, feeling helpless and hating it. “I’m sorry! I know I’m being ridiculous.”

“Looks like we’ll talk about _some_ things, then?” He grins that crooked grin of his and brushes some stray locks of hair off my forehead.

“First of all: There were no other men, Sherlock. You’re the only one who’s ever made me want him like this, with his body. And secondly… The women don’t matter. Because you are also the only one who’s ever made me want him in all these other ways, and it’s not just about you being beautiful on the outside, no, but about everything that’s inside of you, your mind, your brain, your irritating shenanigans that drive me up the wall and that I can’t live without, and will not live without again, ever, if you let me.”

_Oh._

“I won’t deny that it excites me to be your first, because it does, oh _God_ it does, because I know that it’s special, unique even, for you to let this happen, and you fucking chose _me_ for it to happen with… but that doesn’t mean that you doing it to me is _not_ special, just because there were others before you… It never felt like this – believe me when I tell you. This… this is so much bigger than everything, Sherlock, _so much bigger_. I don’t know how to explain it any other way. I’m really not gay, Sherlock, not even bi… hell, come to think of it, I think I’m not _any_ label anymore – it’s just you. _You_.”

He licks his bottom lip ( _check »John« file - it’s the nervous lick_ ) and rubs the back of his neck with the hand that has just deserted my groin. His own penis is only half-hard now, pulsing weakly against my thigh through his underwear.

“I used to fantasise about this so many times in the last months – you have no idea.” He chuckles lowly. “You have _absolutely_ no idea how much I want you. I tried to ignore it, tried to tell myself it’s just loneliness and grief, but deep down I’ve always known that it is more, and real. At night, all by myself, I thought about you and touched myself… _God_ , even thinking about it takes my breath away; it’s never been this intense for me before.”

A vision of John, alone in his bed, head thrown back in abandon, his hand moving under the duvet and his mouth working around my name, appears before my inner eye. Desire flares up, rekindled by his words, and tugs at my insides. I can’t believe it – how can he feel this way about me?

“I’m not nice, and I’m not… _beautiful_.” It almost pains me to repeat it. “How can you say all these things and mean them?”

I’m not fishing for compliments – I ask because I really want to know.

_No one’s ever wanted me like this. I would have known. Wouldn’t I?_

He looks at me with something close to agony in his blue, blue eyes, and I watch his pupils dilate when he puts his fingers against my cheek to caress me.

“If I could get hold of the people who made you think you’re not beautiful, I’d make them pay for it, Sherlock. You are. You’re the most fascinating human being one can imagine. Your ever-changing eyes, they look into my soul, they’re like a drug, getting me high when they’re fixed on me. Your insane cheekbones, good _God_ , they are a piece of _art_. Your voice gives me goose bumps. I love listening to you when you laugh, when you make one of your long, rapid deductions, when you run beside me, out of breath… Even when we still lived together, right at the beginning, I sometimes used thoughts of your voice to get me hard, to pleasure myself at night, and knowing that you were in the same flat, pacing the living-room or lying in your bed, your large frame splayed on this mattress, made it better still… Even without me acknowledging that emotions could play a part in my attraction to you, I always came so hard when I allowed myself this forbidden fantasy, Sherlock… You don’t seem to notice, but you’re so fucking sexy that it _kills_ me.”

 _So many years. So many lost years. Oh God._ My breathing accelerates. _Sweaty palms. Stomach ache. Nausea. Panic attack. I can’t---_

His hand being put over my heart rips me out of the downward spiral threatening to sweep me away, and he holds it there, not caressing me, just pressing down a little and thus anchoring me to reality. He knows, I can see it in his eyes, but he keeps talking as if nothing was amiss.

“And no, you’re not _nice_. You’re difficult, and rude, and annoying, and sometimes I have no bloody idea what you’re on about. But I’ve seen the _other_ you as well, the one you give me when we’re alone, and the one you give to people who are weak and in need of help. You’re loyal, and honest, and selfless, and you hurt when a person you care about is in trouble. You’re a human being with faults, and I wouldn’t want you any other way. It’s some things you _do_ that I don’t agree with, Sherlock, but that has nothing to do with who you _are_. I’ve made mistakes myself, a lot of them, and there is so much darkness inside of me, so who would I be to tell you there’s something wrong with you? Who is _anyone_ to tell you that you’re not worthy of love?”

My heart is going to stop any second now. This is like nothing that’s ever happened to me, and I find it difficult to process that our perceptions of my personality and appearance seem to differ so much. This is not me, this man he’s talking about. But _God_ , do I want to be him.

“I want to get to know _this_ you, too, the one reserved for intimate moments, the one that craves being touched and gives back in kind, the one that reveals your deepest desires…”

His free hand moves to cup my cheek and I nuzzle his palm, kissing him there. It’s an almost unbearably mundane notion, but actions obviously do speak louder than words sometimes. His thumb brushes my lower lip, then my chin, rasping against my stubble.

“You say love is a sentiment, a disadvantage, but you don’t mean that, really. I know it, because I’ve seen you love people. Not many, mind you, but it’s there. And I know how hard it is for you to let people in, and I’m honoured that it’s me you chose to be the one who gets to see you here, like this.”

I have to close my eyes for a moment to gather my composure, consciously ordering my body to calm down.

When I open them again, he’s looking at me, obviously waiting for an answer of some sort.

“John, I… I don’t know what to say. Again.”

I grin shyly, feeling, for the first time in weeks, how the constant weight that has been pressing down on me is lifting bit by bit.

“I promise I’ll make an effort to get better at this kind of conversation in the future.”

I reach up to put my hand over his where it is resting against my chest.

“It’s just you for me, too, John. I’ve never looked at anyone like this. I’ve never been attracted to anyone before, not properly. You… you turned everything I thought I was around, and I don’t know how well I’ll deal with that. But… no matter what happens – I want to give you everything and tell you everything and I don’t want to be without you ever again. I want you to come home to me and stay, with Rosie---“

He interrupts me by kissing me full on the mouth, then rests his forehead against mine.

“She is my world, and I feel bad for what I’m going to say next, but I don’t want to talk about this part of our life together right now. I want tonight to be about you and me only… okay?” he says. “You and me against the world, like it used to be…”

I nod. “Okay.”

He brushes my nose with his, smiling gently. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

I return the nose brushing, my hand sliding behind his head to ruffle through his hair. “No. I want to undress you.”

He huffs, and it sounds amused. “Thank _God_.”

\---

“Oh, Sherlock, wait, _wait_ …”

He growls and grabs my shoulders to keep me from licking my way down his chest.

“Wait.”

I stop kissing him and look up, momentarily taken aback because I thought he liked this, _wanted_ this.

My irritation seems to be showing on my face, because he takes a deep breath and shakes his head a little, as if to clear his mind. Then he sends me a faint smile and loosens his grip.

“I want you to, Sherlock, I _do_ , but we need to talk about this first. I… Are you clean?”

He bites down on his bottom lip and the micro-expressions playing around his eyes and mouth tell me that he’s _very_ uncomfortable. His gaze flickers to the faded scars on the insides of my arms and then back to my face, and my heart sinks. He’s afraid of me, and he’s right. I’m embarrassed that it didn’t occur to me to tell him myself.

“I am,” I say flatly, feeling my walls sliding into place around me without my consent.

_Stop it. This is John._

He doesn’t ask me if I’m sure.

_At least he still trusts you._

“Me too,” he mumbles and runs his fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry. I had to ask.”

I lean my forehead against his sternum and sigh.

“No. You have every right to be concerned.”

He rubs the nape of my neck.

“Have I killed the mood?” he asks lowly. “I really, _really_ wanted you to take me into your mouth, Sherlock. It took all my willpower to stop you. Please go on.”

I close my eyes and do my best to lose the bitter taste of guilt lingering in the back of my throat, moving my lips against his soft skin to get re-acquainted with his body.

Thinking about what I could have lost if anything had gone wrong is almost unbearable. _If I had caught something from a needle…_

“I promise I’ll take better care of myself,” I whisper against him and look up again.

He is staring down at me with such tenderness that my heart skips a beat.

“I believe you, Sherlock… and I know you will,” he murmurs back, his fingers tracing my ears.

His words cause warmth to spread through my chest, because I know it’s the truth – I can hear it in his voice. I can’t believe my luck, and I’m determined to make it up to him.

“Don’t be too critical…” I breathe and move down a bit more until my face is level with his groin. “Bloody beginner here…”

He chuckles, but I open my mouth and drag my teeth along his hipbone, and the chuckle turns into a sharp moan that goes straight between my legs.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he gasps.

Ignoring my own need in favour of giving him pleasure first, I get to work.

\---

“Oh _God_ , you are amazing… I can’t believe--- _oh!_ …that you’re so good at this, a fucking _natural_ \---ah!”

I smile around his hard flesh and let him go with a soft _plop_. My jaw is cramping, but I don’t care.

“I read about this, you know. You can learn a lot from books…”

I lick him slowly, from base to tip, savouring the sensation of silky skin sheathing rock-hard heat under my tongue, and he trembles and sighs.

“I love how your penis feels in my mouth...” I add, whispering, which makes him laugh. His fingers thread through my hair, making my scalp tingle pleasantly.

“And I love that you call it _penis_ ,” he says.

I furrow my brow and give him an experimental bit of tongue right where his foreskin stretches back from his slick glans, rolling his taste ( _bitter, salt, white heat_ ) around my palate, memorising it. He whimpers and his grip on my hair tightens for a moment.

“That’s what it’s called, John.”

“Oh _God_ , you’re so--- come _here_ ,” he pants and pulls me up for a hot and bruising kiss. All my muscles turn to jelly, because he’s good with his mouth, too, driving me wild with nips and licks and exactly the right suction in exactly the right places.

“Is it okay if I use the vernacular?” he asks and grips my erection to squeeze it at the base.

“ _Mmmhhhh_ …” I hum and buck up into his hand.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he grumbles, his voice dropping to a sultry drawl. “I love your _cock_ , Sherlock… I love how hard and wet it is for me, and how I can feel it pulse in my hand… God, you’re _big_ , too… I love that you trust me with your body, opening up to me… I love that I’m the one you picked to experience this with.”

Oh, he’s _vocal_. His mouth wanders lower, down my throat, leaving a wet trail of kisses on my skin.

“I love this impossibly long alabaster neck… and how your pulse quickens when I kiss you there… and how you flex your hips, how you can’t help it, because it excites you so… _God_ , I want to make love to you all night long, in every fucking way possible…”

He bites my clavicle and then pushes his mouth against my left nipple. He teases me with the tip of his tongue, and this sensation is something I did _not_ expect.

“ _Oh, f-_ \--!” I yelp involuntarily, a violent shiver running through my whole body, and he latches on immediately, moaning at my reaction.

“Oh, _say it_ , please… don’t hold back, come on…” he urges, circling my nipple with his tongue again and then rolling the little hard nub between his teeth. His hand starts to stroke me, easing into a slow and steady rhythm. I throw my head back against the pillow, lost in my pleasure.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I force out, because he wants to hear it, and then a dam inside me breaks and I start losing control. My brain protests weakly, but my mouth can’t be stopped. “Fuck, yes, _please_ , oh _God_ , John, more… _more_ …”

He’s breathing hard, speeding up the pace of his strokes, and when he starts to suck on my now over-sensitive nipple, flicking it with his tongue again and again, I feel it starting inside of me.

This is different from when I do it to myself, _so_ different.

“I--- I’m going to--- _John_!”

“Oh _God_ , love… come for me, _yes_ , come on---“

He changes his position, but I barely have time to mourn the loss of his lips on me, because a second later he takes me into his mouth in one large gulp, going down deep, still stroking the base of my shaft in the same fast rhythm, and everything around me goes black. I hear myself sob uncontrollably and realise that I’m crying again, hot tears running down my temples and into my hair, and then my orgasm takes me and turns me inside out. My back arches off the bed, and nothing hurts anymore, and John moans around me and swallows me down again and again, noisily consuming my release.

After what seems like several minutes, I return to my body, and he scrambles up the bed and puts his shaking hands around my face. Through a veil of tears, I see that he’s crying as well, and when he presses himself against my side, I feel silent sobs vibrating through his chest.

“You’re so _beautiful_ when you come, oh God…” he pants and kisses me.

He straddles me and presses his erection against my penis, which is still hard and now slick with his saliva.

“Sorry… can’t take it slow now… you’re so _fucking_ gorgeous… oh---” he groans, desperately rutting against me.

I help him into a rhythm by grabbing his arse, squeezing the strong muscles and pushing him down on myself, again and again.

“ _Yes_ , John…” I spur him on and remember what he said about my voice earlier.

Looking at his face, which is twisted in the most primal and enticing expression I have ever seen, I lick my dry lips and brace myself for the next experiment.

“Yes, _come for me_ … I want you to come all over me… your--- your cock is so hard, so _hot_ … oh God, look at you…”

I start out by repeating things I heard people say in movies, back in the days when I was younger, when I felt obliged to familiarise myself with the idea of sex, to force it onto myself because being a virgin at the age of twenty-five is not normal, not right, but once I get going, I feel the cheap porn dialogue turn into something more myself, something basic that’s been biding its time inside of me taking over and putting words in my mouth that I never thought I’d say. I don’t recognise myself, saying all this, and at the same time I feel like it’s been a part of me forever, now finally claiming its right to be seen and heard.

I’m scared of it.

I love it.

“I love how it feels, how you _look_ … John, let go now… oh fuck, you’re _divine_ , so beautiful… give it to me now, all of you… I--- I love you, _I love you_ …”

He cries out as if in pain, his eyes going impossibly wide, and his body stutters to an abrupt halt. I marvel at his expression; he’s completely lost in limbo for a split second, and then his hips piston forwards with almost brutal force, and he whines and climaxes all over my abdomen and chest.

“ _Yes_ ,” I whisper, kneading his thighs, helping him through the spasms wrecking his shuddering body. My hands look ghostly pale against his golden skin, and I revel in the feeling of soft leg hair and smooth skin brushing against my palms. “Yes, _darling_ …”

The term of endearment bubbles from my lips before I can stop it, and inwardly I kick my own shin, because _what the hell, Sherlock, are you crazy? Darling???_

He pants through the aftershocks and smiles at me with shining eyes, and then he lowers himself down on my chest, taking his weight onto his elbows to avoid crushing my injured ribs. His movements cause his warm essence to get smeared all over our fronts, sticky and slick and, as weird as it sounds, perfect.

“You look like a fallen angel,” he gasps and flicks my upper lip with his tongue before he delves in for a slow, deep kiss. I shiver, kissing back carefully, still embarrassed by my outburst. He grins against my mouth and flicks my earlobes with his thumbs.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs and bites my chin playfully. “I like it. I _do_. It’s very you. Say it again sometime.”

“Hm,” I utter non-committally, and he chuckles.

“Come on… Let’s get cleaned up a bit.”

\---

John gives me a head start to the shower, saying he needs to make a quick call, and I don’t ask what the call is about, because I’m sure he needs to check on his daughter and talk to whoever it is who’s currently taking care of her.

I step under the spray with a sigh, relieved that the water’s drowning out his voice. I can’t bear worrying about a single thing connected with Rosie, Mary, _the future_ right now, my nerves frayed by the cognitive and sensory overload of today’s events. This has never happened to me before. My brain was my temple, even while high on six different drugs at once, and I could always rely on it to do my bidding as required.

_What have you done to me, John Watson?_

My knees feel weak. Maybe I should have a bath instead? I bend down to switch from shower head to tap and plug the drain, and then carefully lower myself into the bath. The rising water feels wonderful on my protesting muscles, slowly engulfing me in a cocoon of wet warmth. I close my eyes and lean back, telling myself to relax.

\---

The door opens with a small creak, causing me to open my eyes and turn my head. He’s there, smiling at me, naked and gorgeous. A Greek god peeking into a steamy London bathroom, his silvery-blond hair turned into a halo by the soft light coming from the small lamp above the sink. My heart goes out to him, silencing the whirring gears in my mind.

“Hey,” he says, “Can I come in?”

I furrow my brow in mock contemplation. “That depends – are you only talking about coming into the room or coming into the bath with me?”

I know what flirting is and I know I’m good at it if I want to – while working, I’ve used this skill to my advantage many times. Now it comes naturally, which is a pleasant surprise.

He bites his lip and takes two steps towards me, closing the door behind him.

“How about coming _in_ the bath with you?”

He’s doing it again, that sultry thing with his voice that makes my joints wobble and aching heat pool in my lower abdomen.

“I love it when you play with… prepositions,” I reply, thankful that my own voice betrays my growing arousal only a little bit.

He raises one eyebrow, standing so close now that I could reach out and touch his hip, his---

He draws me out of my musings by speaking again.

“Oh love, you haven’t seen all my prepositions yet. Make some room.”

\---

“I’m sorry I interrupted the afterglow by making that call,” he murmurs into my ear and kisses me there softly. “I just had to… organise a few things, you know.”

His chest against my back is strong and firm, and his arms around me make me feel safe. I lean the back of my head against his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” I answer. “You don’t have to explain.”

He is still for a moment.

“And you don’t want me to explain right now,” he then states. It doesn’t sound grim, just curious.

“No,” I agree, “I really don’t.”

“Are you okay?” he asks and nibbles my shoulder blade.

I shrug.

“I’m not sure. I just can’t focus on anything right now. I don’t understand why – I’ve never had any problems multitasking, sometimes working on up to five cases simultaneously, but now… If I start thinking about all the things that went wrong until we got here, about all the things we’ll have to work through to make it better, then my mind just… shuts down. I also feel restless because I can’t process what just happened and how I feel about it. I can’t file it away to its proper place, which is… irritating.”

I hope he understands, because I really don’t have the right words to explain.

“I know it’s probably just me not knowing how to deal with… feelings,” I finish a bit lamely.

He seems to ponder this for a while, his palms painting soapy circles on my chest, arms, and shoulders. His fingers then move across my back and linger over the scars scattering it, his touch holding a silent note of _we’ll talk about these eventually_. I’m immensely grateful that he hasn’t brought it up yet.

“It’s new for you, all this. I don’t think you should be alarmed. Sex this great has rendered more experienced men unable to function for a while,” he finally says, and I appreciate that he’s complimenting our earlier endeavours to make me feel better about myself.

There’s one more thing I might have to address, though, before this goes any further. ( _Who are you kidding? You couldn’t be falling for him any harder than you already are._ )

“I’ve never been diagnosed, but from what I’ve researched over the years, I might very well have some form of autism, John. Before I met you, I never cared much about what it is that makes me the way I am, but when we grew closer, I started to look at it from a more detached perspective. You taught me where to stop when I went too far, but I know that I won’t always be able to remember. Are you sure you want to get involved with me? I’ll hurt you again, and chances are I’ll never even notice it.”

_It’s fair to tell him._

_If he leaves me, I’ll die._

He presses his cheek against my back and sighs audibly.

“ _Damn_ _it_ , Sherlock, do you really think that I’ve never thought about that? We’ve been _involved_ for a long time now, even if our relationship wasn’t physical. Do you think I’m not aware of the fact that you’re not like other people in many ways? I don’t care, as long as I can make you feel good and valued and loved. As long as you are comfortable talking to me, and as long as you know I want you, want to be with you. I gathered that during the last hour, you did enjoy being with me like that, even if it confused or overwhelmed you sometimes. Is that so?”

I nod vehemently, not wanting him to think that _he_ is the problem and secretly relieved that I don’t have to look at him while we talk. It makes this so much easier to deal with.

“Being touched like that makes me feel like… like an animal,” I confess lowly. “Something takes over and I… I don’t like that; I like my brain being in control. And at the same time I want it… want it so _badly_ \--- I know I’d perish if you never touched me again. It confuses me, and I absolutely _hate_ being confused.”

He kisses the back of my neck.

“I know. I’m sorry. But I think it’s like that for everybody, Sherlock. The turning into an animal, I mean. You stop thinking and just _feel_ , and you say crazy things, _dirty_ things that you’d never say outside the bedroom, and you sweat and pant and look silly, and call out to deities you don’t believe in, and that’s what it’s _supposed_ to do to you. If you can still think, the other person’s doing something wrong. The impact is just so much harder on you – it’s probably because you’re way more intelligent than the rest of us combined.”

His hands close around my upper arms, rubbing slowly.

“I’d never want to make you feel uncomfortable with this, Sherlock. It’s okay if you can’t do some things or even if you can’t do anything for a while, or--- or ever. I won’t go looking for it anywhere else.”

His brief hesitation tells me that it costs him a lot to say this. I cross my arms in front of me to lace my fingers through his.

“You _love_ sex, John, and I’m very aware of the fact that you giving it up for me would be an immense sacrifice. A sacrifice that I’m not prepared to accept, even though I appreciate the offer. I wouldn’t want you to get robbed of this way to express your feelings, and I want to learn how to do so myself. Sometimes you’ll have to do the talking for both of us, but I’ll do my best. It will not always work, but I’m trying… I’m already trying tonight, John.”

He gives my fingers a quick squeeze.

“I know,” he answers. “And yes, I do love sex. Sex with _you_ is pushing that love to a whole new level, in fact. But I need to know… Are you enjoying yourself, then? Do you promise to tell me if I do something you don’t enjoy?”

“Yes,” I say, glad that I sound more confident than I feel. “I am. And I promise.”

“Then it’s fine with me. We can work around it, Sherlock, I’m sure of that. I’ve been living with you for years now, so I know what I’m getting myself into. I’m confident that we don’t have to worry just because you’ll need some time to adjust or to develop strategies to deal with your reactions to… intimate situations. Also, and I’m going to speak frankly here, the things we need to work through, the things that are overwhelming you now, are hardly going to come up again after we’ve dealt with their aftermaths. You’re not going to jump off any more buildings, I’m not going to marry any more women, nobody is going to shoot anyone anymore, you’re going to give up the drugs for good, and I’m never, ever going to hit you again.”

His voice breaks a little at the last part, and I want to wrap myself around him and show him that _it’s alright, it really is_.

I turn around in his embrace until I’m able to reach his lips with mine, and although the movement hurts my side and makes me wince, I don’t pull back.

“I’d be lost without you,” I whisper into our kiss. “I know it isn’t now, but… it’s going to be okay.”

\---

“That escalated quickly, huh?” he jokes and helps me into a fresh dressing gown.

We never got around to _coming in the bath_ – as it turns out, certain topics of conversation tend to dampen the enthusiasm a little.

We sat there and kissed a bit more and washed semen, sweat, snot, and tears from each other’s skin (which felt, surprisingly, more romantic than it sounds), and then he washed my hair, which relaxed me so much that I almost fell asleep against his body.

“You smell delicious now,” he whispered against my ear, and his hand found its way down my back and, before I knew what was happening, between my buttocks. When I jumped a little, he used his other arm to steady me against him.

“Is it okay if I clean you up a bit?” he asked, his finger nudging my opening, running along its edges, massaging me there. “There’s something that I have in mind…”

I’ve watched enough porn to guess what he was referring to, but I forced myself to not run from the room, the flat, and the town screaming. _Being nervous is alright_ , I told my brain, _but there’s no reason for alarm. He’s not molesting me. Stop acting as if he was._

I nodded, swallowing loudly, almost comically, feeling every ridge in his fingerprint as he rubbed this most intimate place of mine.

“It’s… okay,” I croaked.

I’m aware of the fact that touches like that are supposed to be sexual, arousing, but it was such a strange sensation that it didn’t get me hard. It wasn’t unpleasant, but my body didn’t know what to do with it.

He seemed to be a bit interested, slowly undulating his hips against my backside while he took his time to get me as clean as possible without actually pushing inside, but he didn’t try to take it any further.

When he was finished, he pressed a long, sensuous kiss between my shoulders and cradled me in his arms again. “I’ll show you what that was for… later.”

We stayed entwined like that for a while and I started to drift off again, but then the water turned too cold to sit there for much longer, so we got out of the bath and he dried me off with a fresh and fluffy towel that he had miraculously produced out of nowhere. I haven’t given Mrs Hudson my washing in ages…

“Yes,” I answer and pull him against me, wrapping the dressing gown around the two of us as I hold him tight.

It’s paradoxical that every time I find myself worried but unable to talk, we still end up talking anyway and manage to somehow get a few of the thousand unsaid things out of the way in the process. I’m feeling better now, less confused and no longer hyper-aware of my shortcomings, and also not at all tired anymore. Strange as it is, I feel _playful_.

_That’s a new one, Sherlock._

“Will you come to bed with me again?” I ask and bite the shell of his ear, pulling at it gently and teasing him with my tongue. I make my voice drop to an even deeper baritone, for the first time in my life fully aware of the fact that speaking seductively to another person can be a sensual experience for oneself, too. “I recall you saying something about making me feel so good, hmm? _Darling_ …?”

He shivers and moans lowly.

“Yeah… _God_ , I will…”

I grin and suck his earlobe into my mouth.

“Good… come on…”

When I let him go he looks at me, his eyes glazed over with lust, and I still can’t believe it’s me who did that to him. It’s a privilege.

“Come,” I repeat and take his hand to pull him with me to the bedroom.

\---

“ _Oh!_ \--- oh.”

_Now I see._

I assume I haven’t watched enough porn after all, because I did not see this coming. _Oh…_

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he breathes against me, my name like a prayer on his lips.

His tongue laps at me again, pressing down harder with every velvety stroke.

My hips are propped up with the pillow he got from his old bedroom, which Mrs Hudson has kept in pristine condition all this time ( _God, if Mrs Hudson knew what’s happening to her fresh bedclothes right now_ ), and he’s between my legs, his mouth busy where no one except him has ever touched me before.

“ _Mmhhh_ ,” he hums and tongue-kisses my opening as if it was my mouth, his nose nuzzling into my testicles, his light stubble scraping the sensitive insides of my buttocks.

When his tongue slides upwards and along my perineum, I groan and throw my arm across my face.

“ _God!_ ” I whimper.

He does it again, and again. I feel myself blush furiously, my cheeks, neck and chest hot and tingly with arousal.

He squeezes my leg.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“I’ll remember this moment forever,” he tells me, his voice low and raspy and his eyes full of something intense that I can’t understand – _pleasure? pain?_

I don’t answer, but just watch him, and after a long moment of staring into my eyes he gets up on his knees and takes the small bottle of lube he has found in my bedside table to pour a small amount onto his hand.

“You’re amazing… I love how you look right now. It makes me want to cry, I want you so much,” he says, and I realise that he knows that despite my uncanny ability to deduce most people by glancing at them once, I can’t read all of him when we do this, the input I get too complex and confusing for me to handle. He’s letting me know what’s going on inside of him to make it easier for me.

“Thank you,” I say lowly, not referring to the compliment – and I think he knows what I mean. I want to give some of it back to him, so I add: “I love what you’re doing to me.”

He smiles and puts his hand where his mouth used to be.

“Is this good?” he asks, his middle finger circling me now, barely making contact yet, and I’m astonished by my lack of embarrassment and by the intensity of the experience. This time, unlike in the bath, my penis is definitely reacting to the indirect stimulation. Hot sparks are sizzling through my nerve endings, all of them so sensitive to his touch, and I thank the heavens or fate or cosmic coincidence for the fact that I do masturbate occasionally and sometimes use lubricant to make the proceedings more enjoyable, because despite my earlier misgivings I’m not sure if I could have gone without this tonight. In fact, I _know_ I couldn’t have.

“Yes--- _oh_ ,” I force out, already experiencing trouble to form coherent sentences, and he kisses the inside of my knee.

“Spread your legs a little more,” he orders quietly, and when I do so, he pushes _in_.

“Oh my _God_!”

My thighs start to shake uncontrollably, and I’m not even shy about it. This is not the invasion of privacy I’ve always imagined – and dreaded – it to be. I feel like I’m being loved, cared for, _worshipped_ – my body is no longer merely _transport_ , not tonight.

“Yes, _John_ …”

I don’t know for how much longer I can keep looking at him, at his face contorted in passion and concentration, such an intoxicating mixture. The deeper he goes, the harder it becomes.

“How about…” he mumbles, as if talking to himself, and twists his hand to brush the pad of his finger against a spot inside of me that makes me see stars.

“ _Hah!_ ”

My eyes snap shut and I roll my hips to get him to do it again. By now my penis is resting against my abdomen, full and heavy and leaking drops of hot fluid in a steady trickle.

“More…” I beg, parting my legs wider still.

John growls lowly, deep down in his throat. “ _Yes_ , show me what you want, love…”

He then obeys my request and does it again, and again. _So good._ I feel myself opening up to the intrusion, the tight ring of muscle going slacker by the second, and decide that one finger isn’t enough, not by far.

“Put another one in,” I tell him breathlessly.

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” he pants, and it drives me insane to know that I can make him sound like that just by letting him touch me.

He pulls back and thrusts in again, this time using his index finger as well. The stretch, the slight burn, feels amazing. My heart stutters in my chest. I want to touch myself, but drawing it out seems like a tempting alternative, too.

“Fuck…” I sigh when he finds my prostate again, and I’m a little surprised at how easy it has become to say it and how liberating it feels. “I’m so glad you’re a--- _ah!_ doctor…”

He laughs a little. His fingers find a rhythm inside of me, his mouth raining kisses onto every part of me he can reach ( _shin, knee, inner thigh_ ), and my world explodes into a swirl of colours flashing behind my closed lids.

“ _Mmmmhhhhgod_ … oh _yes_ …” I babble randomly, jerking out of my state of mindless ecstasy when I feel him move and take me into his mouth.

“Oh---” I moan, my eyes flying open again. “Oh, oh! _No!_ ”

He lets me slip from his mouth and freezes. “What? What is it? Did I hurt you?”

_Oh, damn._

“No!” I hasten to say, grabbing his wrist to stop him from pulling out. “I want you inside of me, _all of you_. I--- I would have come if you had kept that up.”

“Oh.” He relaxes immediately, grinning up at me shyly, two adorable dimples showing in his cheeks. “Sherlock, I… oh _God_ , I can’t believe this is happening…”

I smile and let my hand run through his hair. I’m not scared anymore.

He wets his lips with the pink tip of his tongue, and this time, I can read his expression. _Want._

“Do you have condoms?” he asks.

I don’t ( _Whatever would I need them for?_ ), but that’s not the point.

“John, I… I don’t want you to use a condom. Mycroft forced me to get tested for everything. I’ve always been careful, even when I was using heavily, but… he’s my brother. He has the right to be worried. We don’t need to… use a condom. Please.”

He gapes at me.

_That was too straight-forward. And why mention Mycroft???_

I bite my lip. I’m scared I killed the mood by bringing up my brother _and_ my drug addiction in the middle of our foreplay, but I needed to explain…

I grimace.

“ _Sorry._ What an awkward conversation to have---“

“---with my fingers buried knuckle-deep in your arse,” he interrupts me and laughs, sounding a bit incredulous, but still amused, and that breaks the tension.

He keeps his hand still, but pushes his thumb up against my perineum and moves it in small circles that make heat rise up inside of me.

“I’m sorry, John… Maybe--- maybe you prefer using---”

He shuts me up by increasing the pressure of his thumb, making me whimper.

“No. I got tested for everything a short while after Rosie’s birth, because we’d been using condoms and I couldn’t shake the thought Mary might have cheated on me… and then we didn’t have sex after… well. I’m clean. Everything’s fine. I was just… surprised.”

I look at the ceiling, images of John and Mary entwined in a passionate embrace filling my mind. Even though I’m the one who brought it up, this is now taking a turn for the worse. He clears his throat.

“Oh bollocks, sorry… I’m an idiot, Sherlock.”

He scissors his fingers inside of me, sending a jolt of sensation right between my legs, then a third one joins the other two.

“Forget I mentioned her,” he whispers, his voice rough.

His fingers spread and contract, spread and contract. He’s aiming to distract me, and while my brain is still trying to process his words and get rid of the black tendrils of jealousy coiling tightly around my heart, my body is already acknowledging that _oh_ , it’s working.

“This is all that matters now,” he adds. “You know it is.”

In, out, _shudder_.

I _do_ know it. He’s here now. _Let it go._

Contract. Spread. “Oh--- _John_!” _Let it go._

_If you can’t tell him it’s alright---_

_at least lighten the mood---_

_for God’s sake!_

“On a--- _oh_ … on a more positive note,” I try to joke, hoping he gets what I’m doing and why, “Even with Mycroft and Mary in the bedroom with us--- _mh!_ … we _still_ want to have a go at each other...”

He snorts, twisting his hand to go deeper still. _Oh God!_

“Yeah… If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.”

He uses his free hand to knead my thigh, wandering lower until he reaches the place where my buttock starts, running his thumb into the crease where my leg meets my groin. His knuckle grazes my testicles in a flash of pure electricity, the dual stimulation raising my arousal to completely new heights. My body opens up to him in response, pulling him in, and when I look back down between my legs I find him smiling up at me.

“I can’t wait to be inside you… it will be so good, Sherlock…” he says. “You and me, no boundaries, nothing in between.”

“ _Yes_ ,” I sigh. “Yes, like that…”

His soft palm finally touches my erection, rubs it lightly a few times, and my body tries to buck into his touch and down onto his fingers at the same time. _Too much. Not enough. Yet again._

“Will you let me come inside you…? Hm, Sherlock…?” he muses teasingly, toying with my tip and squeezing my foreskin between his thumb and index finger while simultaneously nudging my prostate with his other hand.

“Yes, _please_ ,” I whine. “John!”

He pulls his fingers out of me and grabs the lube, then moves up to kiss me slowly and deeply. His tongue pulls at my own and he thrusts it into my mouth a few times, mimicking what he’s going to do to me soon, and I almost finish right then and there. He nips my bottom lip, then pulls away.

“I’ll make it good for you, Sherlock… you’re so beautiful, all flushed and ready…”

He uses one had to coat his erection in a generous amount of transparent gel, the slick, squelching sounds a precursor of what is going to happen next.

“Okay?” he asks lowly and leans in for another kiss.

I nod.

“Yeah,” I mouth, but no sound comes out.

_Here goes nothing._

He smiles warmly and returns to his place between my legs, kneeling with spread thighs and adjusting his position until his penis can be aligned with my entrance. I close my eyes. His tip is touching me.

“Take a deep breath,” he says, and I do.

“Now let it out, slowly,” he whispers.

I exhale loudly and he presses in, the blunt head pushing me open, the girth of it so much more _present_ than his fingers that it knocks the air from my lungs.

“ _Nnnngggaaahhhhh_ …” I moan, pressing my cheek into my pillow and grabbing a handful of the bedsheet to ground myself.

“ _Talk to me_ ; is this okay?” He sounds so very unlike himself, his voice urgent and breathy and so _deep_ ; I’ve never heard him sound like this before. His hands are shaking, gripping my thighs.

“Yes, don’t stop…”

“Oh _God_ , my love, so _tight_ …”

He keeps rocking into me until his testicles are pressed against me so tightly that I can feel how hot they are, and that they are already full and drawn up against his body in preparation for the final blow. I reach down with one hand and touch him there, running my fingers along the tender skin sheathing the two plump globes, so precious, so vulnerable. He whimpers and pulls back minutely, then thrusts inside again.

“Ah, _God_ ,” he mutters. “This is… oh, it’s _perfect_ … I’m _so_ close already…”

Draw back, push inside again, a little harder this time. I gasp. This is _heaven_.

“Oh God, _Sherlock_ … oh _God_ , what are you doing to me…”

He’s slowly losing it, I can feel it, and I fight to keep my eyes open to watch what is happening to him.

“Next time, when your ribs have healed, I’ll lie down on top of you,” he mumbles, moving his hips, changing his angle every two or three thrusts. “I’ll trap your cock between us, rubbing it with my body while we fuck… you’ll dig your heels into my back… _mmhhh_ …”

He shifts his position again, and _oh_. Yes. _There._ I groan and keep looking at him, my mouth slack and my hands suddenly clasped on his sides.

“Found it,” he pants, half-grinning in an endearingly self-satisfied way, sweat glistening on his forehead.

He makes good use of his achievement, speeding up his thrusts and pushing against my prostate with each and every one. It brings me right to the edge in no time at all and keeps me there, but I think I’m unable to come from this alone. I growl, half in delight, half in frustration.

“ _John_ ,” I protest, “Please!”

“ _Nngghhh_ …” he hums through clenched teeth. “Just a… few more moments, love… it feels so… _good_ … we’ll come _together_ , yeah?”

He rolls his hips lazily a few times and then suddenly snaps them forwards rapidly, again and again.

My eyes roll back in my head, my breath wheezing, my fingers bruising him in their grasp. He grunts, the sound so raw and animalistic that it tears me apart with need.

“ _God_ I love fucking you…” he breathes. “Oh… Does it feel _good_...? Hmmm…? Ah, _baby_ … I can’t _wait_ till you do it to me… that beautiful long cock of yours… buried deep inside my arse…” He groans loudly, lustfully. “ _Oh_ … do you want that, too?”

_Ohhhh God…_

I’ve never considered dirty talk to be something that I might enjoy, but there you are.

“ _Yes_ ,” I manage to squeeze out. “I do…”

Another long, low moan makes its way out of his chest, vibrating with the force of his movements.

“Ohhh, oh _God_ … Sherlock, it’s--- it’s going to be _alright_ , everything… we’ll make it alright…”

He sounds exhilarated; I can hear the broad smile in his voice, the laughter bubbling up between moans and strangled gasps, and I feel the corners of my mouth turn upwards out of their own accord and hear myself sob out an ecstatic burst of laughter in return.

“ _Yes!_ ” I repeat.

His grip on my legs slips for a second, his rhythm turning erratic.

“Oh, _soon_ , Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_ \---“

The bed starts hitting the wall with each thrust, _bang! – bang! – bang!_

I want to giggle some more at this clichéd unfolding of events, but I can hardly breathe.

_Thanks, but we’re not using the second bedroom anymore, Mrs H. Yes, you thought so. I know…_

“ _Ungh!_ ”

All of a sudden, he grips my penis and starts to stroke me hard and fast, and it takes me exactly three seconds to reach the point of no return.

His timing is impeccable.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he shouts and comes, pulsing inside of me and filling me with his hot release, and this pushes me over the precipice as well. My muscles tighten and I spurt all over his hand and my own body, once, twice, and only then does the intensity of the climax catch up with my body’s completion.

“ _Johhnnnn_ …”

Moaning wantonly and shaking all over, I let the sensations wash over me, feeling as if I am orgasming even in the tips of my fingers and toes.

“Yeah, love, _gorgeous_ ,” he keens, continuing to stroke me, my ejaculate making his movements slick and easy.

I make some more sounds that would embarrass me if I could bother to care right now and hold on to his hips to feel him flexing into me as he rides out his own peak.

“Ohhhh…” he sighs eventually and stops moving, but keeps himself inside, still buried to the hilt. His fist stays wrapped around me, wet and warm with sweat and semen.

I open my eyes, which takes an immense effort, and the sight that greets me is the most beautiful version of John I have ever seen. He’s flushed all over, his hair tousled and sweaty, his eyes bright. He looks _new_.

I smile at him.

“I want you… in my arms right now,” I tell him, still out of breath, because I really can’t wait. Only full-body contact could make this moment any better.

He complies instantly.

It stings when he pulls out, and when he sees me flinch he places a small kiss on the back of my thigh in apology. “Sorry,” he whispers against my skin.

He moves to lie down beside me, and I stretch my legs. Only then do I notice how sore I am from being bent at an awkward angle for such a long time. My insides feel weirdly empty, the warm fluid trickling out of me an alien sensation. But who cares. This was better than anything I’ve ever experienced before. _John was inside of me._ John.

“Hey,” he mutters and kisses my cheekbone. “This was amazing.”

I watch him reach behind himself towards the bedside table and fumble around blindly for the box of tissues. When he finds it, he grabs a few and uses them to clean up my penis, the cleft of my buttocks, and his hands, and then crumples them in his fist and throws them onto the floor beside the bed.

“Come here,” he says and slips his arm under my pillow, shuffling closer and pulling the duvet over the two of us with his free hand.

I press up against him, and he wraps his arms around me to hold me tight. Our mouths meet in a tender, almost chaste kiss.

“I’m so glad that this happened,” he says. “I’m so happy I came back.”

He looks at me, his gaze open and full of affection. I inhale deeply and smile, but instead of the reply I was going to give, an involuntary yawn pushes its way out of my mouth.

He huffs, the lines around his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Oh, fair enough. Let’s go to sleep and recover a bit. I can’t promise that I won’t wake you up in the middle of the night for another round, though.”

I kiss the dimple in his chin, my lids fluttering shut without me telling them to.

“Please do,” I murmur. “Mrs Hudson will be delighted, I’m sure…”

“I’ll make _another_ deduction; I’m on fire tonight,” he replies drily. “Mrs Hudson is lying awake right now, grinning into the darkness like a madwoman.”

He draws me closer against him and kisses my brow.

“You’re a _damn_ good shag,” he whispers into my hair.

I chuckle, already half asleep.

It is what it is, John.

And what it is is _us_.


End file.
